


there was safety in that

by rednow



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bad Parenting, Comfort, Conversations, Emotional Hurt, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Floris | Fundy-centric, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot-Centric, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29412459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednow/pseuds/rednow
Summary: “Why did he leave then?” Fundy spoke roughly, voice full of hurt. “Why does he never come back?”“I don't know, Funds. Life can be scary sometimes.”Fundy sighed, flicking his fishing rod into the orange water. Ripples rang out, brave and exploring. Fundy shrunk back slightly into the warmth of his hoodie.“Maybe I can learn to be okay with that.”
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 27
Kudos: 149





	there was safety in that

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NETHERW4RT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/gifts).



> this one is for my lovely moot, dev, for his late night brainrotting and weeping all over my tl that made me go "oh my god THEY WILL BE FINE just take this"
> 
> thank you, you're fun to have notifs on for :)

Ghostbur found Fundy near the canal. The young boy sat folded up near the edge. Every so often, he would flick his fishing rod into the orange water as the sun continued dipping lower to their right.

He debated going below to talk to him. They’d talked before, but fought mostly. Fundy would get angry at him every quickly. But that was months ago, and Ghostbur wondered if Fundy would still be bitter if he tried. 

A dragonfly flew close to his left ear, the buzz reverberating in his ears, and he swatted it away, bobbing up and down half a foot from the ground. Below, he heard Fundy shift in his seat and exhale, still holding onto the fishing rod. 

The sunset painted the rising and falling fields of Dream SMP in glowing colors, and Ghostbur found confidence in the way warm yellow rays wrapped themselves around Fundy— almost as if they were a yellow sweater, knit at home.

If Fundy was still mad, Ghostbur could deal with it. Ghostbur would always choose to try.

And so, he made his way down the bridge.

He was welcomed with a scowl.

“Why,” Fundy gritted his teeth when he noticed and Ghostbur shrugged. “Why do you always come to bother me?” It wasn’t a question; rather an accusation that stemmed from hurt.

Ghostbur often lacked context courtesy of his cloudy recollections, but never love to give.

“Just wanna talk,” he told him, inserting himself into the space next to him. He made sure to keep a comfortable gap between them, enough for Fundy to pretend he wasn’t even there if that was what he desired.

Fundy turned away. “We’ve talked before,” he told him, returning back to watching the still water.

Was this his way of coping? Ghostbur didn’t remember much, and from whatever fragments he’d clung onto from his past life, and from what the people told him— Fundy hadn’t been the same since Wilbur died.

“Caught any fish yet?” Fine, Ghostbur thought. He could start with casual conversation.

Fundy grunted and mumbled something about it not being the prime time for catches.

Ghostbur sighed. A still silence fell. Warm July air washed over them, slowly turning cooler as the night drifted in.

Clouds shifted and passed, and Fundy said nothing. He just gripped his fishing rod like it was the only thing keeping him from falling out of reality.

“Hey Fundy,” he said finally. Fundy turned. “Can you be my friend tonight?”

Fundy shuffled. “I don’t remember much,” Ghostbur told him, and it wasn’t a lie. “And so perhaps, I can’t really do much for you, but I can listen.” At Fundy’s glance, he continued, gentle with his words. “If you want, you can talk, and I will listen.”

Fundy blinked at him. In the warm setting shadows of the lingering night, Fundy saw flickers of Wilbur in Ghostbur.

His chest hurt. 

“Why did I,” he began, trailing off. “Why did I always get the worse end of the stick?” asked Fundy earnestly, almost believing he was talking to his dad.

Ghostbur laughed lightly and Fundy shook himself. Wilbur would’ve absolutely hooted with laughter at that. Wilbur hated difficult situations, and humor was his way to squirm out of them.

Ghostbur was no Wilbur.

And maybe it was okay that way.

“You did,” Ghostbur acknowledged, and Fundy found himself mildly surprised again. Wilbur hated confrontations, he’d do anything but take the blame. Fundy dug the heel of his boots into the ground, twisting it in to push out dirt. “But I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose.”

The air tasted humid. “You can’t be fucking serious right now,” Fundy grated angrily, the grip on his fishing rod astronomically hard. “Wilbur was never— NEVER there for me!” Ghostbur flinched mildly. “He used me, used me every single time— I was his pawn. Fundy do this, Fundy do that, oh wee waa you’re my little champion— he  _ never  _ fucking meant  _ any  _ of it. Never!”

Fundy’s voice wobbled dangerously close to tearing up and Ghostbur found himself shifting closer despite himself. Wrapping an arm around the young boy, Ghostbur nudged him. Fundy exhaled and loosened, somewhat grudgingly, sinking into his shoulder and Ghostbur put his chin on top of his head.

“Why,” Fundy mumbled into his yellow sweater, voice muffled and his knees slanted. To Fundy, Ghostbur smelled like warm sweaters at the start of winters, the ones Wilbur would chide Fundy into wearing before going out in the cold. 

Fundy didn’t know what he wanted to ask himself but Ghostbur replied anyway. “I don’t know,” he whispered, feeling a pang of guilt. He unclasped the rod from Fundy’s hands silently, placing it down on the ground. “He tried, Funds.”

Fundy’s heart panged horribly at the nickname. It had been a long while since someone had cared enough to give him one. 

Fishing turned to be Fundy’s escape, his prime method to cope. Every other evening he would find himself near the canal, obsessively fishing, longing and reaching for things he didn’t want. 

Every time he caught a fish, he felt emptier. 

And so, he would catch another.

Nothing was enough, and worst of all,  _ he  _ was never enough.

Ghostbur recognized Fundy’s emptiness in the way he didn’t push him away. And so, Ghostbur held Fundy tighter. He wrapped his arms around the boy, and Fundy melted in his warmth shakily. 

“You know, I loved him,” he croaked.

Ghostbur bit his lower lip, wetting it with the tip of his tongue. “Sometimes, you love for the sake of loving.” 

“That’s a stupid fucking thing to do then.”

“It is, love makes you do stupid things,” Ghostbur encouraged patiently.

“Wilbur wasn’t stupid then. He never loved me,” said Fundy, automatically.

_ Lies,  _ Ghostbur pressed his lips. Wilbur was the stupidest. He loved too easily, too freely to be able to control it. Wilbur sucked because he cared too much about the things he cared about.

“But he did,” was all Ghostbur could muster. A dragonfly buzzed past his ear and he swatted it away quietly.

Fundy looked up from where he’d buried himself in Ghostbur’s yellow sweater.

“Why did he leave then?” He spoke roughly, voice full of hurt. “Why does he never come back?” 

“I don't know, Funds. Life can be scary sometimes.”

Fundy sighed, pulling away to pick up his fishing rod. He flicked it back into the still water. Ripples rang out, brave and exploring. Fundy shrunk back slightly into the warmth of his hoodie.

There’s not much to do in love sometimes, Ghostbur thought. You love, sometimes you get loved back, and that is what it is. He’d always considered love to be fulfilling, but when Ghostbur looked at the silhouette of a boy who’d matured far beyond his years, he learnt something new.

Love could be empty too. 

“Ask,” Ghostbur nudged, and Fundy did. “Did he care?”

“Of course."

Fundy inhaled sharply, pausing, considering. And then finally, healing words were uttered.

“Maybe I can learn to be okay with that,” and Ghostbur nodded, hearing him.

Fundy stopped fishing. This would, in fact, be the last time he would ever fish. He put away his rod and sat upright cross-legged, holding up his face with arms perched up on his knees.

Warm winds blew past the canal. The last bit of the sun was setting now, threatening to plunge them in darkness. Ghostbur vowed to himself to get Fundy home before nightfall fell.

Fundy would inhale, and Ghostbur would exhale. They fell into a rhythmic pattern, one breath at a time, just existing, and both found that there was safety in that.

And the next time Ghostbur wrapped his arms around Fundy, which was sooner than later, Fundy finally didn’t feel so empty.

**Author's Note:**

> apparently, dragonflies symbolize change in the perspective of self realization. so i totally didn't just put them there unintentionally. it was all intentional, chat, i am very smart
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! leave a kudos/comment if you did because i depend on ao3 for serotonin
> 
> as an oneshots person, user sub to me i beg. i need to feed my pet blobfish
> 
> ps, [my twitter](https://twitter.com/REDN0W_) for more bullshit


End file.
